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And he wondered what Fiore would think if he knew just how close Enzo had been to becoming a chirurgeon himself.
Enzo’s sorrow at Fiore’s suffering was matched only by his determination that Fiore should never suffer so again. It had cost Fiore a great deal to confide in him. Enzo would safeguard his trust with his life.
At present, however, Fiore stirred. And while he turned over with furrowed brow, it dissolved with a smile the moment his half-open eyes settled upon Enzo. A glance sufficed to draw Enzo to his side. No sooner had he ventured within reach than Fiore drew him down for a kiss.
So Enzo set his pondering aside for the time being.
~
Fiore had never told anyone about Elio or his true origins before. Not even Artemisia. He’d dreaded the danger of discovery. And, even if by some miracle the tale didn’t carry back to the conservatorio, he had no expectation of receiving anything like sympathy in return. In revealing his past to Enzo he’d braced for blame. Or criticism, at the very least; outlining all the ways he’d failed and the hundred methods by which a better man would’ve succeeded in his place.
Enzo had offered neither. Instead, he’d simply listened. Which frankly no one had done for Fiore since Elio’s death.
And even after learning of Fiore’s weakness, Enzo didn’t abandon him.
At least, not yet. Fiore had fallen asleep half-expecting Enzo to be gone in the morning. Better men had been driven off by tales of less woe. But he’d awoken to find Enzo still in his quarters, bringing him coffee and brioche just as he had the day before and seemingly as happy to see Fiore as ever.
Fiore remained wary. Divulging his secrets had unburdened him, true enough, but it also left him feeling hollowed out and harrowed. Breakfast filled some of the lack. To have Enzo close beside him, his warm bulk nestled snug against him in the bed, filled still more. If anything Enzo seemed more attached to him for all his frailties. And against his better judgment, Fiore found himself more attached to Enzo in turn.
There was a certain charm in how Enzo doted on him; bringing him breakfast, checking his pulse and listening to his entrails, helping him shave and wash and dress. Few men of any rank would do so much for Fiore. Much less an aristocrat.
Assuming, of course, that Enzowasa genuine aristocrat and not just a wildly accomplished impostor.
Fiore liked him very well—quite possibly too well—but the more he considered the matter the more he realized how little he truly knew of him. Enzo had enough medical knowledge to diagnose a life-threatening infection and seemed on exceedingly familiar terms with at least one chirurgeon. He could either afford or had gone into enough debt to wear an exquisite costume. He thought nothing of offering Fiore a retirement to ease and comfort for the rest of his days. He had at least one servant to his name and through some means had acquired the silverware of some noble house. (Which house in particular, Fiore knew not. He could recognize all the ships whose captains graced his bed, but when it came to the crests of noble houses his repertoire fell far short.) Beyond this, the mysterious, newly unmasked man who graced Fiore’s chamber had asked Fiore to call him Enzo—which, again, could be short for at least a half-dozen names or could simply be a preferred alias with no relation to his actual name whatsoever.
It wasn’t necessarily unusual for a gentleman caller to keep Fiore in the dark regarding his true identity. Many preferred anonymity, particularly if they resided in the city rather than merely making port like the bo’suns and sea captains and sundry sailors in between. Fiore didn’t bother speculating on most of them beyond wondering idly for his own amusement. Enzo, however, had begun as idle curiosity and grown into something rather more. What, exactly, Fiore hardly knew.
The following fortnight passed in idleness. Enzo hardly left Fiore’s side for the first se’en-night. At the end of it he admitted, with evidently sincere regret, that his family required his presence in the ancestral halls for evening dinners at the very least. Would Fiore get on well enough without him for those few hours?
Fiore smiled and assured him he would survive. To himself, he wondered at how Enzo hadn’t wearied of his presence earlier. He certainly hadn’t been a very interesting or adventurous companion. Sedate and quiet walks could only entertain a gentleman for so long. And ceaseless evenings spent reading aloud to an invalid could prove nothing short of tiresome. Yet Enzo had never once complained. Nor had he given even the slightest hint of anything like annoyance. Fiore marveled at his strength of will.
Enzo didn’t ask that Fiore refrain from working whilst he was gone. Fiore didn’t return to work regardless. While sheer boredom certainly tempted him, his body remained too weak even if he’d had the conviction to follow through. He had strength enough to read to himself—Enzo had brought several more novels beyond the original three and left them all behind for his perusal—and to draw as the light permitted. This kept him occupied overnight for another week. It certainly helped that every morning he could count on Enzo’s arrival bright and early with coffee, brioche, and a comforting presence.
By the end of the fortnight, however, Fiore found his patience for convalescence waning.
Enzo had deigned to kiss him even after seeing him in so truly disgusting a state as his illness and even as his body continued to leech blood and worse. He cared not for the bandages. Nor had he turned up his nose at assisting Fiore in washing and dressing. No gentleman was loved by his valet, to paraphrase the more popular saying, but Enzo seemed fond of Fiore even while valeting for him.
Even so, kissing was all he would do with Fiore since the chirurgy. And while Fiore didn’t feel quite up to entertaining strangers, he would’ve very much liked to entertain Enzo. His quiet care and reassuring strength throughout the past fortnight had transformed him from a charming mystery into an admirable beau. Every gentle caress made Fiore yearn for more. To say nothing of what lay beneath his mask. Now that he could see just how a shy smile stole over those handsome scarred lips, all he wanted was to know how those chiseled features looked in the throes of ecstasy. If he could but see Enzo’s face as he spent… His imaginings drove him to satisfy himself in his hand when Enzo departed for the evening. But said satisfaction no longer satisfied.
So when Enzo returned the following day and Fiore coaxed him down into another kiss, his patience had reached its breaking point.
“You could do more than kiss me,” Fiore murmured against his mouth. “If you’d like.”
Judging by the hard length against his thigh, Enzo would very much have liked. Yet still he hesitated. “I don’t want to do anything that would hurt you.”
Fiore studied him. Enzo seemed genuine in his refusal—and, in equal measure, genuinely sorry to have to refuse. Which granted Fiore just enough courage to go beyond mere flirtation into the terrifying realm of plain speech. “I’d like you to do more than kiss me.”
Enzo’s eyes widened.
Fiore held his breath.
Then a smile tugged at the corner of Enzo’s scarred mouth, half wonder and half disbelief, and he bent to kiss Fiore again.
Which wasn’t what Fiore had asked for, and he meant to say so the moment they parted again, but then Enzo’s hands, which ‘til now had cradled his jaw, descended below his waist to work at the fall-front of his breeches, and Fiore had no further complaints.
Enzo took him in hand. Instinct sent Fiore’s hips bucking up into the tight grip of his fist—which provoked a wince and a hiss as his still-healing waist protested. A gentle palm laid over the crest of his jutting hip-bone stilled him. Enzo broke off their kiss.
“May I use my mouth?” he enquired, his whisper warm on Fiore’s lips.
